


to hearken after prophecies and dreams

by dante_kent



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, apply fic, if canon is getting you down, rinse and repeat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-12 01:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5648560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dante_kent/pseuds/dante_kent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian blinks to clear his vision, sure he’s hallucinating. But no, this isn’t his room. It’s – he’s in – this is – </p>
<p>Then the door swings open, and Mickey strolls in. </p>
<p>~ </p>
<p>A.K.A. what if we looked at canon and just...said no? Let's try that out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to hearken after prophecies and dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to tumblr on a mad whim. Posting here largely for archival purposes, but hey, if you're looking for distraction from our collective canon nightmare, take a look. :)
> 
> Title from _Richard III_ , by none other than the illustrious William Shakespeare. For the record.

Ian jolts awake, heart pounding.

He takes a few gasping breaths, trying to calm the panic streaking through his limbs. He looks around the room wildly, trying to get his bearings.

The last thing he remembers, he was on the couch in the Gallagher living room, clutching onto a beer bottle and trying to drink away another pointless day at the diner. He doesn’t remember how he got in bed, but somehow he must have trudged upstairs at some point, because here he is. Except…

He blinks to clear his vision, sure he’s hallucinating. But no, this isn’t his room. It’s – he’s in – this is –

Then the door swings open, and Mickey strolls in.

“Morning, sunshine. Nice of you to join us.”

Ian gapes as Mickey saunters over to the window and pulls the curtains open, sunlight spilling into the room. Mickey’s room. In Mickey’s house. Where Ian is, shirtless in bed. Scratch that. Naked in bed. What the fuck.

Ian opens and closes his mouth a few times, but no sound comes out. Mickey seems utterly oblivious, emptying a few things out of his pockets and placing them on the nightstand. He finally glances over to see Ian staring, and his brow furrows.

“You look groggy as hell, man. Shouldn’t have let you sleep so long. It’s almost fuckin’ noon.”

Ian can’t be fucked to worry about what time it is when he has no clue what fucking _year_ it is. He so clearly remembers Mickey in that orange jumpsuit, looking at him through a glass window and listening to Ian say those words. Oh god, the things he’d said. Ian feels it all rushing in, that contempt and discomfort, and so much further down, the guilt, the fear, the anger. And underneath it all, the love he’d refused to acknowledge. The love that is now flooding him, filling up his veins until it’s all he knows. How could he bury it? How could he ever feel anything but this?

“ _Mickey,_ ” Ian breathes, relief so intense he thinks he might pass out from it. “Oh my god, Mickey.”

Mickey’s eyebrows draw together in concern. “You ok, man?”

Ian shakes his head in amazement. “You’re here. You were in jail. How are you here?”

“Jail?” Mickey barks incredulously. “The fuck? You hit your head or something?”

“No,” Ian muses. “I don’t know. I just – I had this dream, I guess, but _fuck_ , it was so real. Debbie was pregnant and you were in jail, and I was – jesus, Mickey, I was – ”

“Hey, hey,” Mickey interrupts, halting Ian’s mounting distress. “You’re alright. It was just a nightmare. You’re ok.”

Mickey sits down on the bed, placing a hand on Ian’s cheek. Ian reaches up to cover it with his own, turning his face into Mickey’s palm and breathing him in.

“Oh fuck,” Ian murmurs, tears stinging his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mick. I’m so so sorry.”

“Got nothin’ to apologize for,” Mickey insists firmly. “Relax, man. I got you.”

Ian’s sigh is bone deep, Mickey’s hand against his face an anchor in the sea of thoughts swirling in his mind. He’s struggling to sort out what was real and what was part of this elaborate, horrible, _vivid_ dream. He can still feel flashes of that other him, the bitter numbness born out of months of confusion and resentment, and he realizes his whole body is shaking.

He gazes at Mickey, cataloguing each detail of his face. He looks so different from that version of him under those prison lights. He looks younger, healthier, the exhaustion written into his skin transformed to a kind of hopeful energy. There’s also a cut on his forehead, and Ian reaches up to trace it, noting a few other scrapes and bruises along the way.

“What happened to you?” Ian mutters, fingertips pressing against the warmth of Mickey’s skin.

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really? My dad? The Alibi? Ringing any bells?”

It does, and Ian’s heart clenches at the memory of Mickey that night, covered in blood and smiling. It feels so long ago to him, but from the looks of the wounds, it must have only been a few days ago. How can this be real?

Mickey is looking at him with worry, and Ian hates how familiar the expression is to him now. “You feeling ok?”

Ian doesn’t even know where to begin. He feels lost and ill and so so goddamned relieved. But he knows that the dream isn’t where it all began. Knows that things have been off for months. Knows that even if it was all a nightmare, it could still happen. It could all still happen. And that decides it.

“I think maybe I should go see a doctor,” Ian admits quietly.

Mickey pulls his hand away from Ian’s cheek, and his stomach sinks. But Mickey just replaces it on Ian’s forehead.

“You sick? You don’t feel warm.”

“Not that kind of sick, Mick,” Ian says miserably, shame crashing through him. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to be this. But god, the way he felt in that dream, that person he became – he can’t let it get to that. He’s fucking terrified, but he doesn’t want to lose himself like that.

And fuck, he doesn’t want to lose Mickey either. Mickey is still looking perplexed, and Ian feels panic begin to ripple through him again. He starts to turn away, curling in on himself on the bed, but Mickey grips onto his chin firmly and tilts his head up.

“Hey. We’ll figure it out, ok?”

Ian’s chest feels tight, straining under the press of love and gratitude that flood through him. He feels tears start to fill his eyes again, but he squeezes his eyes shut, breathing out and nodding against Mickey’s hand. He feels Mickey press his lips to his forehead, and his heart stutters.

They’re quiet for a moment, Ian’s head still reeling to comprehend everything. Finally, Mickey breaks the silence, his tone light.

“Debbie was fucking pregnant? You’ve got some stupid siblings, man, but I don’t see Debbie as the one dumb enough to get knocked up. Lip, maybe.”

Ian chokes out a startled laugh, curling his hand around Mickey’s bicep. Mickey shoots him a half-smile.

“Hey, wanna head out, get some breakfast? I’m buying.”

Ian grins at him, linking his fingers with Mickey’s. “Yeah, Mick. Sounds good.”

~the end

 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, come play on tumblr! Find me at [andcurioser](http://andcurioser.tumblr.com)!


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